"We imagined we knew everything the other thought, even when we did not necessarily want to know it, but in fact, I have come to see, we knew not the smallest fraction of what there was to know."
The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion
My 10 year old son and I visited one of the last remaining Borders Book Stores yesterday, something that struck us both as quite sad, as we wandered among the clearance priced books grabbing up those that most appealed to us, and deciding what we could afford. We each love the printed page and the act of using a physical bookmark to hold a place when needed. We both, from our own unique adult and child perspectives, feel the sense of history changing. Like a rummage sale in the streets of Atlantis just before the continent slipped silently under the sea. I will miss the trips to the bookstore with my young son. This is one of the things we like to do together.
Later in the afternoon he sat on the floor, with his Legos and Magnetix spread out and growing into rockets and cities and who knows what else, and creative concentration wordlessly playing with the features of his face. I was reading a book that was not-a-textbook, which felt like sneaking a chocolate bar after having been on a strict diet for months. My new semester starts next week. I was snuggled up, tucked into a corner of the couch. Between pages I would look up, unnoticed by either he or the cat, and watch him build, take apart and build again. It brought me joy to see him in that place of unfettered, unorchestrated, uncontrolled expression.
At one point, I asked him if he'd like me to stop reading. He looked at me quizzically, then answered that no, as long as I was there with him, that was all he wanted.
I could feel myself relax in the comfort of that simple statement.
The quote above from The Year of Magical Thinking is one I read just this morning. I was struck by the beauty and profound nature of that sentence. In the book the author is pondering what she thought she knew of her husband of over forty years who had passed away a few months before. She was struggling with the realization that even though she was closest to him of anyone in her life, she had not known all she thought she knew. It was also the realization that we can't know anyone. One wonders if we can even know ourselves.
That is a distressing...and incredibly lonely thought.
But true, nevertheless.
I spent 20 years devoted to a man I believed I knew. I believed I saw a good side, a hidden side locked away, that with enough love and proof of trustworthiness, with enough dedication and forgiveness, with enough sacrifice on my part, he would finally feel safe to BE that person - the person I loved.
I knew not the smallest fraction of what there was to know.
I still wanted to believe even after all these years since our marriage ended, and did believe at some level, and probably still believe, despite the cruelty and vindictiveness, the bullying and the lies.
I am afraid to sit on the couch and read a book while watching my son play. I am afraid to be told yet again that I am a bad mother if I don't take him on trips to New York to see plays and climb the statue of Liberty, and take him on trips in a motorhome with his baseball team. I am told I am a bad mother because I don't have the latest video game system and I don't live in a big house and I don't buy him all the best clothes from all the best stores. I am told I am a bad mother because I don't believe in scheduling him in activities every waking second of his day. I am told I am a bad mother because I think it is perfectly ok to "waste" a day watching him play on the floor with his toys and his cat.
In facing these accusations, in the company of attorneys and a court reporter, I am experiencing a grief I could not have anticipated. I am in Solomon's court defending the reasons why I relinquished my time so as to not cut my sweet baby in half.
In whose hand lies the sword?
Not a fraction do I know.
WS
The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion
My 10 year old son and I visited one of the last remaining Borders Book Stores yesterday, something that struck us both as quite sad, as we wandered among the clearance priced books grabbing up those that most appealed to us, and deciding what we could afford. We each love the printed page and the act of using a physical bookmark to hold a place when needed. We both, from our own unique adult and child perspectives, feel the sense of history changing. Like a rummage sale in the streets of Atlantis just before the continent slipped silently under the sea. I will miss the trips to the bookstore with my young son. This is one of the things we like to do together.
Later in the afternoon he sat on the floor, with his Legos and Magnetix spread out and growing into rockets and cities and who knows what else, and creative concentration wordlessly playing with the features of his face. I was reading a book that was not-a-textbook, which felt like sneaking a chocolate bar after having been on a strict diet for months. My new semester starts next week. I was snuggled up, tucked into a corner of the couch. Between pages I would look up, unnoticed by either he or the cat, and watch him build, take apart and build again. It brought me joy to see him in that place of unfettered, unorchestrated, uncontrolled expression.
At one point, I asked him if he'd like me to stop reading. He looked at me quizzically, then answered that no, as long as I was there with him, that was all he wanted.
I could feel myself relax in the comfort of that simple statement.
The quote above from The Year of Magical Thinking is one I read just this morning. I was struck by the beauty and profound nature of that sentence. In the book the author is pondering what she thought she knew of her husband of over forty years who had passed away a few months before. She was struggling with the realization that even though she was closest to him of anyone in her life, she had not known all she thought she knew. It was also the realization that we can't know anyone. One wonders if we can even know ourselves.
That is a distressing...and incredibly lonely thought.
But true, nevertheless.
I spent 20 years devoted to a man I believed I knew. I believed I saw a good side, a hidden side locked away, that with enough love and proof of trustworthiness, with enough dedication and forgiveness, with enough sacrifice on my part, he would finally feel safe to BE that person - the person I loved.
I knew not the smallest fraction of what there was to know.
I still wanted to believe even after all these years since our marriage ended, and did believe at some level, and probably still believe, despite the cruelty and vindictiveness, the bullying and the lies.
I am afraid to sit on the couch and read a book while watching my son play. I am afraid to be told yet again that I am a bad mother if I don't take him on trips to New York to see plays and climb the statue of Liberty, and take him on trips in a motorhome with his baseball team. I am told I am a bad mother because I don't have the latest video game system and I don't live in a big house and I don't buy him all the best clothes from all the best stores. I am told I am a bad mother because I don't believe in scheduling him in activities every waking second of his day. I am told I am a bad mother because I think it is perfectly ok to "waste" a day watching him play on the floor with his toys and his cat.
In facing these accusations, in the company of attorneys and a court reporter, I am experiencing a grief I could not have anticipated. I am in Solomon's court defending the reasons why I relinquished my time so as to not cut my sweet baby in half.
In whose hand lies the sword?
Not a fraction do I know.
WS
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